Leaving in the morning
by Julie Verne
Summary: Betty leaves Toronto after the war. WIll anyone follow her?


I am leaving in the morning, so let's not be shy

* * *

When the war is over, you decide to head home. You can't stand it in this city any longer, all these walls and no horizon and the smell of water everywhere. It's not like you have a job, anyhow. You don't tell anyone you're leaving, just settle up with the landlady.

But first, you head to the cellar and throw Teresa's letters into the boiler, one by one.

Kate comes down when you're about halfway through, grabs a letter and reads it calmly. You snatch at it but she keeps it out of your grasp before handing it back to you, and you throw it in the fire.

"Why don't you want to keep them?" She asks and you just shake your head and throw another handful on. At least they'll keep someone else warm. You've written to Teresa, telling her not to write to this address any more but you haven't left a new address. You don't know where you'll be living yet. "Betty, are you… all right?" but you shake your head again and just throw the last handful in and brush past her, up the stairs. There's still a bloodstain on the concrete. You don't remember now if it was his or yours. It doesn't matter, any more. "Betty?" Kate asks, and grabs your hand on the way up the stairs and the light is behind her and her hair is haloed behind her and you're leaving on the train first thing in the morning and if this is the last time you ever see her, you want to take her memory with you.

So you slip your free hand behind her head and watch her for a second. She doesn't move away when you lean in, so you bring your mouth to meet hers. She doesn't push you away, but she doesn't give you any sign of encouragement so you pull back with a sigh and go upstairs.

You don't answer when she knocks on your door; you're deliberately too busy trying to decide what to pack. It feels like you're slinking away with your tail between your legs and in a way, you are.

* * *

You don't take a lot of things with you; just your savings and some clothes, a book or two. And a set of photographs in a brown package. Everything else you left for the next girl; if there is one. Not a lot of jobs for girls in the city these days.

* * *

You end up going home for a little while, just long enough for the family to lament your perpetual spinsterhood and let slip that Ferd is living in Regina. Regina has a G.M. factory, and if you can build a bomb, you can build a car.

So you go to Regina and you tell the factory foreman exactly that.

The first thing you miss is the streetcars.

The next thing you miss is having an extensive network of friends.

The next thing you miss is having someone that knows who you are.

And that's when you run into Ferdie again.

* * *

You used to date Ferd, now and then, back when you were young. Mostly you'd go see The Wizard of Oz or any movie with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn; something for both of you. So that's what you do now, and when he tells you quietly that the only woman he's ever loved is Judy Garland, you meet his eyes, sitting in the back row of the cinema, his arm slung over your shoulders, and you see what he's saying. You don't say anything, just rest your head on his shoulder. You did let him kiss you, once or twice, when you were younger. It wasn't terrible but it didn't stir anything within you. Not the way Teresa's kisses did.

It's harder working in a car factory than a bomb factory. For one thing, you're on the floor with men all the time, and they resent you for being there, taking a job from a returning soldier. And cars are heavier than any bomb you built. But you go back to your house at night with a stiff soreness but a sense of satisfaction. You can pocket a rat as well as any Princess. You're renting a little house and the amount of freedom that comes from privacy is almost overwhelming.

A few months later, Ferd unexpectedly proposes. It's not exactly romantic; he thinks he's being investigated and you're the woman he's most likely seen with. People do assume you're dating, despite both your ages. And you're not exactly overrun with options, so you agree, with the stipulation that it's a sham marriage. It'll keep you under the radar, for a while at least. Not that you're in a submarine. Not that you have to worry about submarines, anymore. Not that you need to be in a submarine to use the terminology.

You have to invite people to the ceremony, and that's when you first start cursing the whole idea. Your family will have to come and it takes a long time to decide whether or not to invite Gladys, but eventually you do. She's the only one from the Toronto crowd with the money and time to make it.

You don't even think about sending one to Kate; you very deliberately don't think about it.

* * *

You don't expect a reply for a week, but three days later the foreman calls you over and tells you that there's a fancy lady waiting for you outside. Gladys.

You pull your cigarettes from your shirt sleeve and start lighting one as you start heading toward the broad.

It's not Gladys. It's Kate. Your step falters as she turns. Your breath catches and your lighter doesn't catch. You stop and cup it to feign casualness, making sure your engagement ring is obvious on your hand. You haven't seen her for a year. You can pretend it's the bright sunlight after the dark workroom that's making your eyes watery, but that wouldn't fool anyone, not even you.

She steps towards you. "Married, Betty?" She asks indignantly.

"Not here," you say, eyeing the foreman lounging in the doorway. "You got the return address?" She nods and you press your house key into her hand. "I get off at six," you tell her, handing her your half-finished cigarette and walking back inside under the watchful eye of the foreman.

It takes a full ten minutes in the washroom to get your hands to stop shaking.

You get through the rest of the shift somehow, knowing that at this moment Kate is wandering around in your house, rifling through your books, looking at the insipid paintings that had been on the walls when you moved in.

* * *

She's not in evidence when you get home and you call her name before hunting out your spare key.

You walk through the house slowly, expecting to find her in any room.

She's in the bedroom. In your bed. Fast asleep. She must have been on the train all night and all she has is a small bag next to the bed. Your bed. That she's sleeping in. She's in something that looks more comfortable than what she was wearing before. You watch her sleep for a moment, then turn to the washroom for a bath. Engine oil is hard to get off; it seeps in below the top layer of skin and sticks around the knuckles, the beds of nails. You run a quarter of a lemon over the worst of the stains while you're in the tub. When you get out you rub your face with another quarter but you always look dirty, these days. Grease monkey.

You'd expected her to still be sleeping but she's sitting at the kitchen table, yawning when you first see her, bringing a hand to her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" You ask, pulling your towel closer. "Wait, let me get dressed. Then tell me what you're doing here." You go back to your now-vacant bedroom and shut the door behind you, only to hear it click open a few moments later. You ignore it, get dressed; she's seen you undressed hundreds of times but you can't get rid of the blush you feel rising from your chest to your face as you try to throw clothes on, keeping your back to her.

"Married, Betty?" She asks again, once you've got a shift on. You shrug a dress over your head.

"Yeah. I'm getting married. And I invited Gladys, not you. And it's next month, not right now."

"Betty…" she starts, then sighs and slumps onto your bed. She's too comfortable with your bed and it makes you unaccountably nervous.

"I thought you'd be happy for me," you say, trying to keep spite out of your voice.

"Are you happy?" She asks quietly, watching closely as you tug socks on; the nights aren't too cold but wooden floorboards leave splinters in your feet.

"I'm not miserable," you say, and you're not; but you see what she means.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going? Why didn't you tell me where you were going? Betty, I was worried sick. You just burnt all those letters and disappeared. Even Gladys didn't know where you went."

"She did, but she's a good friend." You told Gladys where you were going; you even sent her a few letters and you've heard back from her. You asked her not to tell Kate though. You'd rather not think about her, in a rather deliberate way. But when you look up she looks… stricken. "Didn't want to be found, Kate."

"Why not?"

"I was so sick of you needing me in one way and pushing me away another." And you can see that she understands but she still looks stricken. "Not healthy, whatever we had," you tell her. "I had to move on. And I have."

"But Betty, married?"

"He's a good man; I've known him forever." You tell her a little defiantly. Because you see what she means. "I've only got bread," you tell her, because it's dinnertime but you only have bread.

* * *

She ends up staying three weeks, three weeks that you spend on the couch in your own house. You have to tell people she's some kind of distant cousin but you get the feeling that if you weren't getting married very soon, a lot of tongues would be wagging.

Ferd's pleased for you though. You don't talk about it, what you both are, but he gives you a wink when he drops you at the front door with a respectful kiss to the cheek.

You have to go into the bedroom every morning, to get dressed, and every morning Kate wakes up and watches you dress, inscrutable look on her face.

* * *

It's three days before the wedding when Kate turns to you and asks something you don't take much notice of at first.

"If I asked you to come back to Toronto with me, what would you say?" She asks.

"I'd say no. My life is here now," you tell her without thinking, turning back to the mess of doilies you were trying to make. Then you think about it, and life was much more vibrant in Toronto; you don't know if it was the war or the people but you _do_ miss it. Kate leans forward and stills your hands, takes the needles from you and makes you look at her, really look at her.

"No, Betty, if I asked you to come back to Toronto with _me_, what would you say?" She asks, and there's a desperate quality to her voice and she springs forward to catch your mouth awkwardly with hers.

When you pull back, a few minutes later, you're breathless and confused.

"What changed?" You ask.

"You ever tried living without you?" she asks, slightly smirking at how discombobulated you look. "I can't do it for another day," she says.

You're on the train to Toronto first thing, next morning.

* * *

Author's note: Having nothing to do for two days is boring so this happened. Kind of an edited missing scene/path not taken from Paint Over It All.


End file.
